A Fear of Large and Heavy Things
by Strega Brava
Summary: Post 'The Final Problem'. Sherlock can only hold off the inevitable conversation with Molly for so long. My first foray into Sherlock fanfiction. I still need to work at it but am reasonably pleased with this initial offering. Sherlolly.


Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it does not belong to me. Savvy? Excellent. Spoilers for 'The Final Problem' and other episodes. Sherlolly.

 **A Fear of Large and Heavy Things**

"Hullo, Sherlock. What are you doing here?"

Sherlock Holmes had anticipated and planned for a number of responses.

He had expected anger.

He had expected tears.

He had certainly expected large and heavy things to be launched in his direction.

And yet, Molly Hooper had stymied him once again.

She simply stood at the door, with a tired smile on her face…wondering what he was doing here.

And what was he doing here?

He told himself that he had a duty to ensure that she was all right.

She was his friend and had almost died because of it.

He had already made quiet (and not particularly legal) arrangements to confirm that her residence was no longer in danger of exploding.

She was physically as safe as anyone in London.

But he recognized that something had happened during that phone call.

Something had changed.

Between his first 'I love you' and his second.

He had avoided analyzing it further.

Procrastination could be a very good quality in dealing with uncomfortable matters.

"I was in a bookstore and I saw a very interesting new text on Forensic Anthropology. I picked up a copy for you. I thought it would appeal to your professional interest."

He held out the book rather awkwardly as proof of his good intentions. It featured several decomposing bodies and partial skeletons on the cover. He thought she would like that.

He would also be sure to take note of all the large and heavy things in her flat…just in case.

Molly took the book and chuckled.

"That's very kind of you. Thanks. You should probably come in. I can make us some tea."

"Tea would be…nice."

He entered her flat and paused, uncertain of what to do.

"You can hang up your coat on the hook behind the door," Molly said from the kitchen area.

Sherlock took off his coat and hung it up as directed, closing the door behind him and locking it.

What now?

He slowly walked over to where Molly was busy getting tea ready. He observed her nervousness which she was trying desperately to hide. He observed that nothing matched…the teapot, creamer, sugar bowl and, indeed, the two cups, all had their own patterns and colour schemes. The new book was also on the counter.

It was eclectic but functional. A kind of practical cacophony.

The flat was clean…spotless even. She had obviously spent a great deal of time cleaning and organizing.

Decluttering her home…decluttering her life.

And, although nervous, she seemed happy.

At the very least, she did not give any indication that large and heavy things were going to be thrown at him.

A good sign, perhaps.

He sat down on a stool and, rather than stare at her, casually opened the book.

"They have an entire chapter on new techniques to recreate faces based on incomplete skulls."

The water in the kettle started to whistle.

"If it will give a voice to the forgotten dead then I'm all for it," Molly replied as she poured the boiling water into the teapot and dropped in two tea bags before putting the lid on.

Time to steep.

Molly set a timer. It was an old timer…perhaps something from her parents' house. It was well worn but worked properly. One of those bizarre little items of no real consequence that seem impossible to throw away.

Sherlock wondered what memories could be tied to an old manual timer.

It didn't, however, seem out of place.

'After all,' he thought as he perused the book, 'she could have picked it up from a thrift shop.'

Molly sat opposite him and, when he looked up, he saw that she still had a ghost of a smile on her face.

He closed the book and pushed it to one side.

'Why are you here, Sherlock?'

He thought of a million replies but decided that only the truth would do.

'I don't know, Molly. I…had to come. I had to see you. You have no idea…'

She put up a hand to stop him mid-sentence.

He stopped.

'I need you to understand something, Sherlock. What I said to you. It was true. All of it. I don't know why it was so important to you for me to say the words but I know you well enough to know that it must have been pretty serious. And, when you said the words to me…well, I knew.'

She paused.

'Knew what?' Sherlock asked.

'That I was in danger. That is the only reason you would ever say that to me. You had to say it to make me say it. I'm not stupid, Sherlock. I may…I may love you but I don't delude myself for one minute that you feel the same.'

She did not seem angry…she simply wanted him to understand.

'I have never thought of you as a stupid woman, Molly.'

'I know…but these things need saying. That…was my truth to tell…not to have it forced out of me when I wasn't ready.'

'I had no choice, Molly. None at all.'

She looked at him calmly and nodded.

'I thought that might be the case.'

'But you are wrong nonetheless.'

'How?' she asked.

The timer for the tea sounded, startling them both.

She turned off the timer and poured two cups of tea, pushing one towards him.

He looked at the cup for inspiration. He wondered if it wasn't intentional that his cup was decorated with magnifying glasses.

'You are wrong about how I feel about you.'

Molly had been about to sip her tea but put the cup back down on the counter.

'How do you feel about me?'

He looked up at her and saw that she had gone quite pale. He had clearly caught her off-guard.

'I…I don't know. When you made me say the words…I said them the first time with some impunity. But, the second time…I meant what I said.'

She simply nodded, encouraging him to continue. Some colour returned to her face. He took a small degree of comfort in that.

'You were right. Your life was in immediate danger. I will spare you the details but, once the danger had passed, I was overwhelmed by what had almost happened. The thought of you…not being present in my life…brought up too many complicated emotions for me to process at once. I…well, I lost my head.'

He absently took a teaspoon of sugar from the sugar bowl and poured it into his cup.

He stirred but didn't drink…he stared at the swirling amber liquid instead. The fragrance of Earl Grey wafted up to him. He suddenly wondered if she had any biscuits handy…he hadn't eaten all day.

'I am not sentimental, Molly.'

'I know,' she replied, taking another teaspoon of sugar and pouring it into his cup. 'And you take two sugars with your tea.'

He stirred again and looked up at her.

'You love me.'

'Yes.'

'You have always loved me.'

'Yes,'

"I fail to understand why. I have never given you a reason to believe…'

'I know. I hoped…endlessly hoped…but never really expected you to feel the same way I do.'

'You should be furious with me, Molly. I've treated you…badly.'

'You have…but you have also suffered for it. I see it in your eyes. You are not the same person, Sherlock. You have changed.'

'I do not want to lose you, Molly. I…fear losing you. The thought of you…'

She smiled and placed her hands over his.

'I'm still here.'

He looked at her hands. No engagement ring. Warm hands. Neatly trimmed nails. No nail polish. Smaller hands than his and yet they covered his protectively.

'I do not want to disappoint you, Molly. You deserve happiness. I don't know if I am capable of giving you that happiness. I…have faults…weaknesses…vices. I have difficulty with my emotions…they are complicated and difficult to analyze.'

'Do you love me?' she asked, leaning over the counter…shortening the gap between them somewhat.

He stared at her…speechless.

Did he love her? Was this love? He knew that he did not want to lose her…that he greatly enjoyed her company. He trusted her implicitly and knew she would never betray him. He particularly liked how her forehead furled when she was trying to sort out a problem at work. He admired her technical skill and had sometimes found himself watching those deft fingers as they delicately dissected a brain specimen.

Suddenly, he found himself wondering many other things…

And then he remembered John's words…she's out there…she likes you…and she's alive.

'I love you, Molly Hooper,' he whispered.

She smiled at him.

'I love you,' he said in a stronger voice.

Yes, that felt right.

He stood slightly and leaned over, kissing her lips softly before sitting down again.

Warm lips. Soft. Well shaped. A slight fragrance of beeswax and honey. She had eaten something with mint earlier. Or brushed her teeth.

'I love you.'

She raised a hand and caressed his cheek. He was shocked that such a small gesture should cause his heart to race and his synapses to seemingly overload.

'You should drink your tea before it gets cold.'

She understood him so well.

'Yes, dear,' he smirked, no longer afraid of large and heavy things being launched at him.


End file.
